November 21st, 2000

Loon

Poetry ... not syching well with the LJ

Yeah, I've been writing a bit ... again, not as much as I had hoped ... have not been able to get into a regular shedule. Also, since I'm not doing these (generally speaking) at the computer, there's the transcription issue to deal with as well. (heavy sigh) Anyhoo ... here (and following) are some more poems.




                    DISJOINTED WAYS



                    1
                    no one becomes
                    entire
                    nothing becomes
                    whole
                    we cycle through absences
                    awaiting arrivals
                    in stations of completion
                    set with the symbols
                    of ancient final states

                    2
                    only the titles remain
                    the forms have shifted
                    and can not be accessed
                    their immersion slides
                    into vague recall
                    in which we know
                    but can not be
                    and where we were
                    but are no more

                    3
                    now blurred
                    held with remorse
                    the sense of loss
                    hangs heavy in the day
                    there are no edges
                    at which to tear
                    just mass constricting
                    bringing pressure
                    and dread to bear



                             - Brendan Tripp
                                11/09/2000

                    Copyright © 2000 by Brendan Tripp
 
 
Loon

More Poetry


                    WHAT GOES UNKNOWN


                    paused in alliance
                    set against memory
                    we use intents
                    in transformation
                    but can not break
                    the grip of patterns
                    set in interplay
                    and conflict

                    too many words
                    and ways
                    too many modes
                    all morbid
                    the addiction creeps
                    with tendrils searching
                    into the brain,
                    the soul

                    are we lost
                    or are we free?
                    these forms appear
                    so similar
                    their lines overlap
                    as meaning blurs
                    and our intention
                    slip inactive

                    want and need
                    must be defined
                    with elements of will
                    the crystallizing force
                    derived of panic
                    sweeps off all plan
                    leaving action,
                    moment's demand

                    all grey
                    all haze
                    all empty, void
                    these vectors fail
                    where grids dissolve
                    leaving dimension
                    guessed as blind
                    in 3-space binds



                             - Brendan Tripp
                                11/13/2000

                    Copyright © 2000 by Brendan Tripp
 
 
Loon

Yet More Poetry


                    FALLEN, UNWHOLE


                    what was not
                    before
                    in coordinate frame
                    these nail
                    targeting time
                    no matter what
                    becomes
                    of the intent

                    not our voice
                    not our visage
                    the scramble zone
                    has spun
                    out stranger forms
                    wove webs
                    unstrung by us
                    unsure and unknown

                    how to see
                    the final style?
                    meaning has fallen
                    purpose died
                    the vector charted
                    loses sense
                    calendars' focus
                    is not enough

                    nothing matters
                    nobody cares
                    the hard fact remains
                    that efforts bleed
                    to void alone
                    distant, forgotten
                    empty,
                    unresolved

                    if our hatred
                    could take a shape
                    and walk the world alive
                    if our passions
                    could be the storm
                    and blast with fire
                    then these could matter
                    their essence be retrieved



                             - Brendan Tripp
                                11/20/2000

                    Copyright © 2000 by Brendan Tripp